


Solace of a shared loneliness

by castielatlas



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Angst, Codependency, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pre-Canon, Slow Build, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-12 18:11:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2119761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielatlas/pseuds/castielatlas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newt tries to kill himself. Alby saves him, in every sense of the word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rage on against the dying light

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so there it is: my very first Nalby and TMR piece of writing! Hope you enjoy (even painfully so)!  
> Please let me know if you spot grammar errors or so, I'm not a native speaker and I don't have a beta yet!

 

The idea blossomed slowly but surely in his mind.

Days after days, they would go into the Maze, come back, look at the maps, go to bed, go back into the Maze. Death was part of the routine, too. Sometimes, a runner wouldn’t make it before the sunset and they would find his body the day after. Sometimes, they would just find parts of it. Other Gladers would die banished or in a new plan to escape. They would die and newbies would come to replace them, join them to wait for their death trapped by those giant walls. It was hard not to feel like a trapped animal, with no memories, no knowledge of who they were, what their life used to be. They were doomed to only think about following the rules, solve the maze, surviving until the next day.

Sometimes, Newt wished he didn't make it back to the Glade. Running was keeping the thoughts away, keeping him from reality, in a weird way, and he never wanted to stop.

But he always did come back, and occasionally, Alby would be waiting for him at the door.

“You’re late, shuck-face,” he would say randomly, as if he wasn't waiting for him especially. And it would make Newt smile and forget how shitty everything was for a small moment.

Nevertheless, the idea would stay in the back of his head, grow stronger with every passing day, creeping when loneliness came greed him night, when sleeping outside was not enough to make the suffocating feeling go away, when the questions were kept unanswered, when he wanted to be _home_ so bad it was stupid because he didn’t even remember it. It was stupid, so he buried everything and let his body become a tomb.

Nothing made him snap, really. Nothing happened. And maybe that was the whole point; nothing happened, and somehow he had let himself think that nothing ever would. So one day, when he should have headed back to the Glade after his break like he always did, he didn’t. Instead, he climbed the wall until his arms hurt, and then let go.

 

 

*

 

 

Alby was calling his name, his voice a soothing light in the darkness. Newt tried to focus on it, hold on to it in the blur that was his mind. 

“Absolute slinthead,” the words echoed, so far away.

His head was pounding, throbbing like thunder, clouding his mind. He attempted to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt awfully heavy, and he barely managed to blink. He tried to move, to speak, but he couldn't, either, and the less fuzzy his mind was, the more unpleasant he felt. 

“Don’t make me dig your grave, Newt.” Alby's voice rang to his ears again, the sound of it distressed, almost pleading. “Don’t make me.”

Dimly regaining consciousness, Newt realized that Alby was actually very close. As Newt forced himself to focus, he realized that his side was clapsed against Alby's, his arm secured around his wraist, Newt's own thrown over his friend's shoulders, the rest of his limbs useless and forgotten. Alby was dragging him.

Instinctively, Newt tried to push on to his feet, and pure, white agony flooded his senses. The fog in his mind cleared instantly, leaving him very aware of his condition, of the agonising pain crippling him. A cry burst out of him through his dry throat, nausea hovering in the back, the taste of blood on his tongue unmistakable.

His whole body was throbbing and his leg, oh god his _foot_ , Newt was sure that if he looked down he would find a Griever chewing it right then and there.

“Newt?” Alby spoke again, and there was relief hovering in his voice. 

Newt didn't understand. He tried to speak, to ask Alby what was the reason to be bloody relieved in his situation, what was even happening because he couldn't for the life of him remember what had happened, but before he could even open his cottony mouth, the sight of the Glade was before him. Alby yelled for help and Newt casted a quick look behind them, watching the doors of the Maze closing just behind them.

Jeff, Clint, Minho and other Gladers rushed to him and Newt realized, _remembered_ with a sick feeling exactly what had happened.

He wasn’t sure which made him sicker: what he had done, or the fact that he had failed at it.

 

 

*

 

 

Lying in a bed in Homestad, Newt closed his eyes to shut the pain out. The two Med-jacks had left the room after nursing his wounds –which happened to be a bump on the head, a few bruises and a shucking broken ankle that they had had to put back in place -which had been extremely disagreeable. Still, this whole situation was so ridiculous he would have laughed if he wasn’t feeling like klunk.

Alby was sitting in a chair beside the end of his bed, putting bandages on his foot, but the blond boy couldn’t bring himself to look at him in the eye. He knew. Newt could just tell by the way his friend stayed silent. He didn’t quite understand _how_ , but he was sure of it, Alby knew what he had tried to do. The realization made him want to burst into tears. Fighting the feeling, Newt put his arm on his eyes, hiding his face. He was absolutely pathetic.

“Newt,” Alby’s voice echoed in the silent room, like he had felt the tumult in Newt’s soul.

He heard the Leader call his name again, grumbling, and then suddenly tightening his grip on the Glader’s ankle. Newt jerked forward, groaning in pain. “What the bloody-“

“I’m talking to you, shuck-face.”

Newt grimaced and roughly ran a hand through his hair, messing it up more than usual. “Don’t you have more important things to do?”

Alby reached out and grabbed his forearm.

“No. This is the most important thing right now.”

Taken aback by the straightforward answer, Newt finally looked up at the boy, not sure how to interpret what he had just said. And because Alby was quick-witted, he took advantage of the blonde’s attention being on him to give him an intense look, his grip merely tightening, and then slowly turning into a light touch. His throat dry, Newt felt himself unable to break eye contact, suddenly very aware of Alby’s fingers on his skin.

“Newt,” his friend repeated, and there was softness in his voice, something that made his stubbornness sound different. “Talk to me.”

Newt had known Alby for almost two years now, and everyone referenced him as the Fearless Leader of the Glade. It amused him, how Greenies were dead scared of him -before the fear melted into some kind of nervous respect, and the moments when Minho and him joked around about it were part of the few things that made Newt’s life less miserable. There were a few of the Original Gladers left, who knew Alby from the very start, when he was less confident and had yet to build that draconian façade of his, but still, Newt and Minho were the only ones so casual with him, the majority satisfied with Alby just being this gruff and associable version of a President.

But Alby was so much more than that, and it was so clear and undeniable in meaningful moments like this. Even if he indubitably had a thousand more important matters with the Gladers’ problems constantly on his shoulders, even if he should probably be scolding him and being absolutely disgusted by his stupidity and cowardice, there he was, being _concerned_.

Newt opened his mouth, trying to say something that wasn’t just pure emotion, something not tainted by anger and hurt and frustration and guilt, but he just couldn’t. Everything was boiling inside him, mixed and messy. Still, he knew he needed to get it out, that all those feelings he had tried so hard to bury since the very first day were eating him alive like a starving Griever.

“I just…” Newt breathed hardly and closed his eyes. “I just wanted to go home.”

His voice broke on the last word and his whole being with it. He felt the tears he had been holding back since he had been brought back into the Glade break free from his eyes and run wild on his cheeks, burning. He started to blurt out incoherent sounds, choking on his own tears.

Alby’s arms were around him in a beat.

Newt wasn't small in any sense of the term. Months of running and helping around the Glade had helped him build some pretty decent muscles, and he was quite tall. Yet, wrapped in Alby's arms, his warm body anchoring and envelopping him so easily, he felt smaller than he had ever felt before. He felt safe.

So, shaking and unable to stop talking even if most of his words were barely understandable, Newt hold onto Alby like he was the only thing keeping him from drowning –and right now, he was.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmured to his ear, stroking his hair, embrace tight but careful not to hurt him considering the current sensitive state of his body. “It’s okay. Get it out.”

And so Newt did.

 

 

*

 

 

Newt woke up to the sun’s rays peaking their way through the window. Blinking sleepily, he noticed a blurry figure in the chair next to his bed and stared until his eyes adjusted and let him know that it belonged to none other than Alby. Bathed in the sunlight, his skin was shimmering in a lighter tone of brown, and with his relaxed features it was giving a smooth aura to the strong boy. Newt felt a smile creep on his lips as he gazed at the sleeping Glader, feeling like everything was good for precious seconds. But then, pain stung him and he was slammed back into the cruel reality, a moan escaping his lips without asking permission.

Alby shifted beside him, his eyes fluttering open. Newt cursed under his breath, more angry at himself for breaking the moment than in pain because of his injury.

“Newt,” the dark-skinned boy mumbled, voice rough from sleeping. He looked at the blonde for a few seconds before asking, “Meds?”

Grimacing, Newt nodded and his gaze followed his friend as he went to the old wood cupboard that served as a medicine cabinet and came back with pills. He grabbed a jar on the bedside table and poured water on the glass next to it before handing it to Newt, who swallowed everything without asking questions.

Alby yawned and Newt suddenly wondered if he had stayed all night there. The thought brought complex feelings to him. Alby had already spent an awful night, thanks to him, so finishing it in a back-breaking chair made him feel guilty; but at the same time, it felt incredibly comforting to know that he would, just to stay by his side.

He remembered last night in a blur. Everything was messy –himself particularly. He couldn’t recall exactly what he had said, or how long he had cried in the boy’s arms, but he was sure of one thing: Alby never let go of him. He held him and listened until the injured boy fell asleep from exhaustion.

He should probably feel ashamed but all he could concentrate on was the fact that he was actually feeling _light_. Oh, he still felt miserable, but it wasn’t crushing him anymore.

He looked at Alby and met the other boy’s eyes, already studying him. A thin smile crept on Newt’s lips, holding the gaze. He didn’t have to say anything, but he did nonetheless.

“Thank you.”

His voice was still rough from the night before, and it echoed smoothingly in the quiet room. Something shifted in Alby’s eyes, and an impossible yet inherently rightful tenderness flooded his voice. “I’m always here when you need me, Newt.” 

An unknown feeling rose in Newt's chest, and unlike all the emotions that had kept growing inside him all these months, he embraced it. It wasn't a crashing burn but a soothing warmth, and it felt so welcome.

Unsaid words filled the atmosphere, but none of them tried to voice them, content to simply gaze at each other in a confortable, understanding silence. The spell broke when a nock on the door echoed in the quiet room, sudden and surprising.

Alby slightly frowned, seemingly annoyed by the disturbance. Still, he stood up and opened the door, revealing a very well-awake Minho.

“Hey lovebirds,” the boy smirked as he entered the room, his gaze quickly dropping on Newt. He studied him wordlessly, worry apparent in his features for brief seconds, but because Minho was Minho, it was soon hidden behind a joke. “Good to see you’re alive, shank. Did Alby mention that you look like klunk?”

Newt couldn't help rolling his eyes at the comment and his friend smiled brightly at the sight, before turning to Alby. “I didn’t want to interrupt your little love-fest but we need you downstairs, Alby.”

Alby passed his hand over his face, and Newt wasn't sure if it was from annoyance, or an attempt to smooth his tired features; presumably both.

“I’m coming.” he declared. “Now slim it or you’ll feed the Grievers tonight.”

“So cold,” Minho put a hand on his chest, faking a hurt expression. Still, because even the Runner knew better than to push a tired Alby too far, he made his way to the door.  Nevertheless, he hovered on the doorstep, gaze on the blond boy.

“I’m really glad you’re fine,” Minho said eventually, sincerity apparent in his voice.

Upon hearing the words, Newt returned him a genuine smile. “Thanks.”

On these words, Minho finally left and Alby waved him off, sighing. “I need to check this out,” he mumbled, running a hand on his head. 

“Well, off you go, then.”

Alby's eyes landed on Newt. The injuried Glader tilted his head, silently asking him what he wanted, and before he could process what was happening, Alby was by his side, close and leaning to brush his lips against his forehead.

“We’re gonna get out of here, Newt," he almost whispered. “And you want to be there when I punch the Creators in their shuck-faces and drop a klunk at their door.”

And without further ado, he left. Newt stared at the door as an inexplicable warmth bloomed inside his chest, and impossibly, he laughed. The sound, although fragile and soft, swelled out of him easily and echoed in the empty room.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

 

 


	2. The absurd darkness of a roofless place.

 

They say it takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart, so Alby waited.

Sometimes, he would catch Newt staring at the Maze with an unfocused gaze, eyes on the landscape but mind far, far away. The blonde wouldn’t say a word, wouldn’t look at him, but Alby’s presence would be silently acknowledged, wordlessly appreciated as the boy’s fingers brushed against his.

In those moments, the Leader could feel everything he was trying so hard to repress bubble under his skin, making his heart ache and his brain spin furiously. From the very moment that he had found the Runner unconscious in the Maze and dragged him back to the Glade, up to when Newt had broke down in his arms, Alby could feel the crashing feeling build inside him. Guilt would flood his whole being with the sole purpose of making him remember the hideous reality; he had failed his best friend. He had seen everything, from Newt’s lost gaze when a Glader died, to the way his voice was rough and his eyes red in the morning, as if he hadn’t slept; how the smiles he gave everyone were a bit too mechanical, broken in the corners. But he had been blind, had made the mistake to believe that it would eventually get better, that he still had time to fix it, and never in his life had being wrong ever been so painful.

He couldn’t say that he was sorry, because then Newt would forgive him and Alby didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve the boy’s forgiveness because he should have known. He should have prevented what had happened, put the pieces together and realize that Newt was too sensitive, too kind, too _good_ for this whole klunk. He should have seen it coming, the day when Newt’s soul would finally break, the last drop that he thought would never come and yet flooded everything in one instant.

Alby could still hear the boy’s heart-wrenching voice echoing in his head, whispering that he _just wanted to go_ _home_ , making him want to shelter him and never let him go. Oh, he wished circumstances were different. He wished they had met somewhere else, in a place where everything would be easier and peaceful. Maybe they would have met in school or on a night out with friends, shared a drink and talked about their favorite book. Maybe they would have introduced each other to their parents.

He desperately wished they could have this, live in a place where they weren’t some strangers’ experiments and they didn’t have to fight, fear for their life, wished they didn’t feel like they were over a hundred years old when the youngest of them were barely thirteen. He just wished he could stop being a poor excuse for a Leader and give all of them the world, the life they deserved.

Unfortunately, nobody would appear to magically grant all their wishes, zap them to a magical world where everything was fine. They could only hope the outside world was as good as they expected, and figure their way out of here, even if it sometimes seemed like their efforts were going nowhere, they had to keep going. Alby had to keep them going, hold onto the tiny hope that things would work out and not let them drown themselves in despair, in the absurd darkness of this roofless place. He had to do everything he could, for them –for Newt.

Alby knew that the urge to protect the boy at any cost was magnified by a selfish part of him, the part that had made him break his own rules. _Never go outside de Glade. Only Runners go in the Maze._ And yet, he went. He didn’t think, didn’t look back, his foot just moved as soon as he realized that Newt was dangerously late, that something must have happened to him and that we would never make it back if he didn’t do something. They had lost Runners in the Maze before, countless of them. Hell, this whole place was a giant graveyard. But he couldn’t lose Newt, no, he _refused_ to lose him.

It wouldn’t be a lie to say that he saved Newt because they all needed him, and that he was the Glue who held them all together, but it wouldn’t be the complete truth, either. The truth was that _he_ needed Newt. And he had never realized how much he needed him until he was slapped by the terrible possibility of living this hell without him. And it was selfish and terrible, but he wanted Newt to get better because he didn’t know how he would make it without him. With his wiped memory and short, miserable live here, the blonde was the only good thing that ever happened to him, and the mere thought of Newt being gone was making him sick to the stomach, fear boiling in his veins. Alby wanted to help him in any way he could, give him everything he had –feed himself to a Griever if it meant allowing the boy to get out of here, whatever was outside, if it meant Newt had a shot at being happy.

Yet, at the end, it was Newt’s journey, and none other than Newt himself could decide to get better. From the moment he understood what the blonde had tried to do, Alby had known that it wasn’t for him to fight, that all he could do to help the boy was to stand by his side, to be there for him, and hope that it would be enough.

Fortunately, it was.

 


End file.
